


Peter Parker's Top Surgery Fund

by stardustandswimmingpools



Series: Peter Parker's Top Surgery Support Group [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Coming Out, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Fundraising, Gen, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Science Bros, Spider Bake Sale, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Trans Male Character, Trans Peter Parker, bad fake names, but don't tell tony he doesn't know yet, but if it means spiderman holding a bake sale then, gofundme as catalyst to coming out, i am so overjoyed that that tag already exists, i...dont know what spider bake sale means, random cashier named remy, spiderman in public, the author has limited knowledge of how gofundme works, think like...post SM:HC but ignoring civil war, this kind of exists in its own bubble of time, top surgery, yeah - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 04:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15235434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustandswimmingpools/pseuds/stardustandswimmingpools
Summary: Ned holds out the huge, emptied pickle jar, smiles wide, and turns it around so Peter can read its new label.Peter Parker's Top Surgery Fund.





	Peter Parker's Top Surgery Fund

**Author's Note:**

> i'm pretty happy with this! disclaimer: I am not transgender, and therefore there's a strong chance I misrepresented something in this fic, though I tried very hard not to. if you're trans and you notice something I did wrong, please PLEASE don't hesitate to let me know!!! it's very important to me to not spread misinformation or be disrespectful to transgender people.  
> that said: I tried to keep this lighthearted, because, well, i didn't feel like getting all deep and dark at 1am (yes, i am writing this at 1am). contains lots of peter and ned's friendship and peter and tony's relationship, with a couple gratuitous cameos because it's my fic and i can if i want to.  
> enjoy!  
> edit: I have been unfortunately informed that Walgreens is not a grocery store but a convenience store and i can't be sure they would sell grocery stuff. That was probsbly my brain mistaking it for Walmart. So I have gone back and changed every mention of Walgreens to Aldi (these are both stores in Forest Hills where Peter canonically lives). Pardon any confusion, thanks. Onward!

Ned holds out the huge, emptied pickle jar, smiles wide, and turns it around so Peter can read its new label.

_Peter Parker 's Top Surgery Fund._

And Peter knows he’ll never find anyone as good to him as Ned.

* * *

 

“So,” Ned says hesitantly, “do you...know how to make brownies?”

Peter nods. “Man, I had to learn to make _something_ to take the edge off May’s cooking. I love her. I love her. I really do. But.”

Ned nods wisely. He gets it.

They corral the ingredients onto the kitchen counter and the work is easy and fun with Ned at hand, making egg puns by the dozen (ha) and licking the spoon before innocently hiding it behind his back.

“Dude,” Peter says, wrinkling his nose.

“Dude,” Ned echoes. “These are gonna be so good.”

* * *

 

They advertise the bake sale on Peter and Ned’s instagrams with almost identical pictures of the scrumptious-looking brownies, sitting on Peter’s stovetop to cool. _Yeet on over to Yellowstone & 69th tomorrow @ 4pm to taste Ned & Peter’s magical brownies (weed not included) _, Ned’s caption declares.

Peter snorts. “‘Weed not included’?”

“Hey,” Ned says. “You can’t call brownies magical and not add a disclaimer. This is gen Z. People just _assume_ you’re a stoner.”

Peter shrugs. Can’t argue with that. He posts his picture and writes, _hit up mine and Ned’s bake sale on the corner of Yellowstone and 69th St tomorrow, 4pm_.

“No offense, but you’re super boring online,” Ned says, peering over his shoulder. Peter throws him a patented Aunt May Look and edits the caption to add a strong arm emoji. “That’s _barely_ better.”

“Next time, you can be the social media manager,” Peter tells him. “We should make more than just brownies, don’t you think?”

Ned purses his lips and stares at the kitchen.

“Yeah,” he allows. “But we’re gonna run out of ingredients.”

* * *

 

Which is how Peter ends up swinging over to Aldi to buy flour, brown sugar, and canola oil in his Spiderman suit.

The cashier stares at him for about six minutes too long before Peter (thank God Mr. Stark added that voice modulator) says, “Uh, how much is it?”

“What? No, no way, I’m not gonna charge Spiderman,” the guy says. He glances around. “Listen, we — we owe you, alright? Just take the stuff.”

“I really would rather pay,” says Peter, feeling slightly uncomfortable, and even more so with a line forming behind him and people turning to stare. “It’s no problem. Seriously.”

“Bro,” the cashier says. “No disrespect intended, but if all you need is flour and sugar and oil, that’s the least we can do. It’s on me.”

This is not how Peter anticipated the visit to the store going. “Um,” he says, feeling trapped. “Okay. Okay. Thanks. Hey, thanks a lot, man. I really appreciate it. I owe you one. I’ll tell your boss you did good. Sorry for the holdup, sorry!” he calls out to the back of the line. “Hey, see you later,” he adds to the stupefied cashier (his name tag says _Remy_ ), and then he takes the bag of his groceries and walks out of Aldi.

* * *

 

“That was the weirdest grocery trip I’ve ever taken,” he announces, walking into his apartment.

Ned smirks. “Look at this.” He turns his phone around and Peter tugs the mask off his head and reads the tweet open on the screen.

Well. Talk about news traveling fast.

“How did you even find that so quickly? That happened like four minutes ago,” Peter says. He presses the center of his chest and the suit loosens and slides off him into a puddle around his ankles. He quickly steps out of it and into some pants and a t-shirt. Ned politely turns away.

Seriously. Best. Friend. Ever.

“I have notifs on Spiderman,” Ned says, in a _duh_ voice.

“You have notifs,” Peter repeats. He picks up the suit and folds it, then drapes it over the back of the couch.

“Yeah, man. Obviously. I wanna know what you’re up to. Who you’re saving, who you’re fighting. That stuff.”

“Dude, I have you on the comms,” Peter says, imitating the _duh_ voice previously employed by Ned.

“Yeah, but what if stuff like _this_ happens?” He points to his phone. “I gotta be on top of it. I’m your guy in the chair, I need to know what’s going on.”

Peter sighs, but the smile on his face tells a different story. “Alright, Ned. Come on, get to it.”

* * *

 

The corner of Yellowstone and 69th, Ned and Peter had learned early on, is a hotspot for bake sales and lemonade stands. Even yard sales, if you’re bold enough to borrow the lawn of the condo that towers behind it. (No one is really sure if anyone lives in that building, and no one is brave enough to check. The mystery keeps people at bay.) The foot traffic on the sidewalks alone brings in a plethora of old ladies with their grandkids or workout freaks jogging with their poor, suffering pets. An occasional biker will also pull up to the curb and get a snack to go. It’s an excellent setup.

It’s also a gorgeous day outside, hovering on the line of 60 degrees Fahrenheit. Peter leans backwards in his fold-out chair and sighs happily. “This is awesome,” he says.

Ned leans backwards too and mimics the sigh. “Yeah.”

Peter thinks about the cost of top surgery and tries hard not to panic, because even though they’ve already sold half of their brownies, fifty bake sales wouldn’t even _begin_ to cover the cost. There’s a tight feeling in his chest that has nothing to do with the binder. But it’s fine. They can do it. Peter is grateful to Ned. He’s also grateful to the gaggle of little boys who wander up to the stand with their mom. His attention is successfully drawn away from exuberantly-priced surgery, and after careful deliberation, each boy takes a brownie (Peter sees them all carefully eye the plate for the biggest option) and the mom drops a $5 into the jar.

“Good luck,” she says warmly. Peter smiles forcibly at her as she takes her crew away.

“I feel like we’re lying,” he says, gesturing the jar.

Ned glances at it. “We’re not lying,” he repeats for the third time in as many hours. “It says it’s for surgery, and it is.”

“Yeah, but not, like, broken limb surgery! It’s just a lie of omission!”

“Peter. Dude. Come on. Look at me.” Instead, Peter elects to focus on a butterfly that is crawling all over a piece of grass by his feet. Ned shakes his shoulder. “ _Peter._ ”

Ugh. Peter turns and looks at Ned.

“This is important to you, and it’s important to me too, okay?” Ned says seriously. “You deserve to be who you are. And I guarantee nobody who’s paying for our bake sale has anything better to do with their money, anyway.”

Peter feels his resolve dissipate under Ned’s unwavering stare. “Okay,” he says. The tightness in his chest unravels too. “Yeah. Right. Sorry.” He closes his eyes. “Sorry. You’re right.”

Ned grins and nods. “Hell yes I am.”

* * *

 

At home, Ned counts the cash and Peter writes down the figures.

“Another five,” Ned says. Peter’s cell phone starts playing _Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong_. Ned looks up, raising his eyebrows, and Peter blushes.

“It’s Mr. Stark,” he says, hiding a snicker. “I should —”

“Gimme,” Ned says, reaching for the pad of paper and the pen Peter had been using. “I got it.”

Peter shoots Ned a grateful look and answers his phone. “Hiya, Mr. Stark.”

“What's this I'm seeing about a bake sale?”

Peter almost trips over the leg of the coffee table. “Are you stalking me?”

“It’s on your Instagram, Parker. I’m the owner of one of the world’s largest tech companies, you think I don’t know how to use social media?”

Well, that makes more sense. Still. “Are you cyber-babysitting me?” Peter demands, stalling.

Mr. Stark releases a heavy sigh, and Peter can practically see him pinching the bridge of his nose impatiently. “Why are you having a bake sale?”

Peter swallows. The temptation to tell Mr. Stark the truth fades under the facility of lying. It’s easier to lie; Mr. Stark doesn’t even know he’s trans, and that’s a whole rabbit hole he doesn’t want to dive into. He doesn’t want to be a charity case. There are people _dying_ out there. Top surgery isn’t and shouldn’t be even _close_ to Mr. Stark’s list of priority spendings. “I'm just trying to make some cash,” he says. Which isn’t necessarily untrue. He’s just trying to make some cash for a specific reason.

“Kid, I'm a multi-billionaire. You need something, all you need to do is ask.”

And, okay. Peter appreciates the sentiment, he does. But it’s like Mr. Stark doesn’t fundamentally understand that eventually Peter’s gonna have to start looking out for himself. Might as well be now.

“I- I don't need anything, Mr. Stark. Really.” He crosses his fingers that the call is almost over.

And then Ned ruins it.

““ _SEVENTY-EIGHT BUCKS IN THE TOP SURGERY FUND!_ ”

Peter’s eyes widen and he whirls around and aims a shocked _what the fuck, man!_ glare at Ned, but the damage is done.

“The what?” Mr. Stark says, confused. “Top surgery fund?”

“Nothing, don't worry about it — _Ned, Jesus Christ_ — I'll talk to you later okay bye!”

“Parker, don’t you —”

Peter hits the _end call_ button and glares pointedly at Ned.

“What?” Ned says defensively. “Seventy-eight dollars, Peter.”

Peter buries his face in his hands.

* * *

 

On Wednesday, at lunch, MJ leans across the table and says, “How was the bake sale?”

Ned nods enthusiastically. “It was great.”

Peter mirrors the motion. “Yeah, really really great.”

“You guys know that top surgery costs, like, at least three thousand dollars, though, right?” MJ says.

Peter almost chokes. “ _Don’t talk so loud,_ ” he hisses. For a moment, something apologetic flashes in MJ’s expression, and Peter feels bad snapping.

“I just mean,” she rectifies, “you might want to look into a faster and more broad-reaching platform for raising money.”

Ned and Peter exchange a look. It sounds like MJ has an idea, and MJ’s ideas are notoriously effective.

“What were you thinking?” Ned says carefully, and they both lean in.

* * *

 

Def Leppard’s volume lowers to a hum without Tony’s say-so, and Tony is about to snap at JARVIS when the AI speaks.

“Sir, data download from Karen.”

Tony sighs. “Her name isn't Karen, I didn't create an artificial intelligence for the kid to name it after some suburban mom. Jesus. Let it through.”

Karen’s motherly voice takes the place of JARVIS’s British accent and says, “Peter’s doing a GoFundMe.”

“A what?”

“GoFundMe is an online fundraising platform. Peter created an account under the name _Tony Rogers_ , title: Top Surgery Fund.”

Bruce snorts from the corner of the room, where he’s reworking a formula from a week ago. Tony takes an appropriate moment to glare at him before returning to the situation. _Tony Rogers._ Jesus. Way to be subtle. And the Top Surgery Fund, too. What the hell is that?

“This again? Karen, scan for vitals in Peter's suit.”

Oddly enough, he can feel Bruce watching him, and wheels around once more, eyebrows raised. “What?” he challenges. Bruce shrugs and holds up his hands in surrender, palms up.

Karen reports, “Peter is not currently wearing the suit. Last use was one hour ago, and his vitals were at 100% health.”

“Then what the hell does he need surgery for?” Tony demands, partially to himself.

Finally Bruce tentatively contributes. “I don't think that's what top surgery means, Tony.”

Tony is sure Bruce isn’t trying to sound condescending, but the idea that there’s something Tony doesn’t know about is difficult to grasp, so Tony goes defensive.

“Okay, let's review. Surgery...on top.” He gestures to his chest. “I mean, do you think he’s trying to raise money for _me?_ Does he know I already got that shrapnel out? Years ago?”

Bruce sighs.

JARVIS steps in. “If I may, sir. Top surgery is the surgery typically undergone by transgender men to surgically remove their breasts.”

And.

What?

Woah.

Bruce exhales.

Tony blinks.

“Say that again,” he says, even though he doesn’t need to hear it again.

JARVIS says instead, “I would recommend not bringing up the subject with Mr. Parker. There are many reasons one would keep something of this nature a secret, and if he thinks you have violated his privacy, it may cause a severe loss of trust between you and him.”

“Tony,” Bruce says, half warning, half concern. “You good?”

Tony’s head is swimming. “Open the GoFundMe page,” he orders.

“Sir, I would strongly advise against any conspicuous —”

“Yeah, that was an order. Open it.”

“Stark,” Bruce snaps, and because it is so uncharacteristic and also kind of dangerous for Bruce to snap at him (or anyone), Tony turns and petulantly says, “Yes?”

“Think about what you’re doing,” Bruce says sharply. “There’s a reason the kid didn’t tell you. That kid trusts you with his life. If he’s keeping a secret from you, there’s gotta be some kind of backstory that you don’t know. And if he finds out that you learned his secret outside of his control, it could seriously mess with him — he might not trust you, or he might get freaked out that someone else will find out. You have secrets, too. Don’t tell me you don’t understand his side of it. At _least._ ”

“Bruce, the kid is doing an online fundraiser. An _online. Fundraiser._ And he’s using a fake name, and it’s _my name._ If that’s not a cry for help, I’m a goddamn princess.” He _does_ understand Parker’s side. And he also understands that this is obviously something the kid needs. Even if he won’t ask for it. Jesus, that child’s guilt complex is like a fucking mansion.

There must be something in Tony’s face that Bruce can see, because he sighs, like he’s surrendering for real. “At least see if he’ll tell you himself.”

“JARVIS,” Tony says, “make a fake GoFundMe account and donate five thousand dollars to the kid’s fund.”

“Sir, I —”

“Fake account. Under the name Bruce Barton. Work with me here. I’m trying to help.”

* * *

 

Peter’s phone rings at 1:34 in the morning, and the bright light casts an eerie glow onto the ceiling. Peter groggily awakens. The phone is happily chirping the tune of _Never Gonna Give You Up_ . “What the fuck,” he grumbles, still about 87% asleep. He feels around on his side table and answers. “What the fuck,” he whispers into his phone. “This had better be so, so important. Like, _there’s an alien invasion and all of the Avengers are suddenly dead_ important.”

Ned’s voice is breathless when he says, “Holy shit holy shit holy shit Peter you will not believe this I was about to go to bed and I thought I would check out how the GoFundMe is doing, because, you know, why not, right? And so I open up the website and — holy _shit,_ Peter.”

It’s too many words for 1:34 in the morning. “Slow down,” Peter mumbles.

“ _Five thousand dollars,_ ” Ned breathes, awed.

Peter bolts upright and barely avoids hitting his head against the bunkbed above. “What? No.”

“I swear to god. Open the website. I don’t know how it happened, I guess it went viral or something.”

Peter has a different idea. He jumps up and turns on his laptop, then opens the GoFundMe.

The number stares back at him like a threat. His breath comes a little shorter. “When did this…”

“I don’t know, but dude! This is amazing!” Ned says. He’s almost too loud for the hour of night, but it sounds distant in Peter’s ears. “Okay, I’m going to bed. But this is _good,_ Peter. This is fucking awesome.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter agrees. “Awesome. ‘Night, Ned.”

“Goodnight!” Before Ned hangs up, he whispers, “ _Five thousand_.”

The call ends.

Peter stares at the number with growing dread.

Really, there’s only one explanation. He knows they didn’t go viral. Small causes like Peter rarely do. And he’s not an idiot. Mr. Stark heard Ned, the other day on the phone.

But the thought that Mr. Stark knows makes his heart beat sixteenth notes in his ears. He clicks to see who’s donated, and there are two people. Some random person he doesn’t know, and someone named Bruce Barton.

Well.

Shit.

Fuck.

* * *

 

After tossing and turning until 3am, Peter makes the informed and intelligent decision to call Mr. Stark. His heart pounds furiously against his ribcage. Clearly, his mind and body are not in agreement with this decision.

He dials anyway, with shaking hands.

Part of him hopes Mr. Stark won’t answer, and the other part of him _knows_ he will. 3am is like happy hour for Mr. Stark.

Sure enough.

“Jesus, do you kids _ever_ sleep? If I have to drug you, it’s not gonna be pretty.”

Peter manages to speak past the lump building up in his throat. “Hi, Mr. Stark, sorry to bother you right now, I just…”

He falters. Mr. Stark doesn’t say anything. Which is _beyond_ unlike him.

So he knows. He knows about Peter, and he knows why he called.

“I, uh,” he begins. And then he drops his head against his knees and mutters, “Bruce Barton. Very funny.”

A beat.

“Tony Rogers, really?” Mr. Stark counters.

Peter makes a noise that is somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. “So. You, uh.”

“Bruce told me I shouldn’t,” Mr. Stark interrupts (thank God — Peter’s mouth is suddenly dry). “I didn’t want to embarrass you, kid. Whatever you think of me, that wasn’t the point. I just wanted to help.”

“And you thought if you used a fake account it would give me a choice,” Peter finishes.

“I see now that I forced your hand,” Mr. Stark says. “That, that’s my bad. My mistake. I’m sorry, Peter.”

Peter registers, dazedly, the sound of remorse in the voice on the other end. And protectiveness, like a fire deep inside, swells up in his sternum. Also gratitude.

“No — thank you, Mr. Stark,” he says firmly. “I...this isn’t really how I was going to tell you, but it doesn’t matter. I guess I should’ve known you would find out. This is really...really, really amazing. I can’t thank you enough.”

“I shouldn’t have —”

“It doesn’t matter,” Peter interjects. “Look, I know you meant well. I owe you, big-time. This means a lot. Really.”

Mr. Stark is quiet for a moment. “You’re really something, kid, you know that?” he finally says.

Peter swallows thickly and blinks; a tear treks its way down his cheek. Surprised, he wipes it away. “I’ve been told.”

“I’m making you an appointment,” Mr. Stark adds. “How is Sunday? Does Sunday work?”

* * *

 

When Peter relays the story the next day (or, well, technically, that afternoon) to his friends, Ned’s jaw drops lower the more he talks.

He finishes by saying, “He made me an appointment for Sunday. A consultation.”

“I can’t believe you used the name Tony Rogers,” MJ says. “It’s like you wanted him to find you.”

“I can’t believe it was _Tony Stark_ who gave us five thousand dollars,” Ned says, appalled. “He did that for you!”

“He must really care about you,” MJ says, as coolly as one might say _it’s pretty warm today._

Peter takes a long drink from his milk carton, and avoids answering that comment. “Ned,” he says, “are you, uh...are you busy on Sunday?”

Ned’s mouth widens into a dangerously large smile. “Are you asking if I’ll come with you to the consultation? Because the answer is _hell, yes,_ _dude._ I’m with you 100%. I’ll even bring balloons that say _It’s a boy!_ if you want.”

Peter snorts. “Don’t you dare.” He glances at the table. “But yeah, I’m asking if you’ll come.”

“This is so cool,” Ned says. “I’m really happy for you, Peter.”

Yeah.

Happy.

 

**Author's Note:**

> quick edit note: after several VERY politely worded comments i have decided to make one tiny change to the ending so that peter & ned are both talking about a consultation on sunday rather than a surgery. if you're rereading this fic and thinking "well i'm sure she had it wrong the first time," you're right, I did, i just decided to fix it because why spread misinformation, right?  
> anyway! i hope you liked that! might do another one similar to this? we'll see. leave a comment letting me know what you thought! i'm on tumblr [@vivilevone](http://vivilevone.tumblr.com) if you want to come and talk to me. that's all! catch ya later!


End file.
